


Follow you into the dark

by queerly_it_is



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Season 7, Purgatory, Season 7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 7x23 - Sam carries Dean out of Purgatory. It's sort of a messy process.</p>
<p>(Think Poltergeist rescue scene)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow you into the dark

Thirty-eight days.  
  
Thirty-eight long, fucking _exhausting_ days, trying to find some way into Purgatory. Barely enough sleep to keep himself alive - but he’s familiar enough with _that_ by now, felt like slipping into an old pair of shoes - same with food, and water, and _everything_ that wasn’t reading books or making calls or sifting through hundreds of pointless internet sites.  
  
Turns out breaking into another dimension isn’t as easy as Lovecraft’d made it sound.  
  
He’s got it now, though.  
  
He’s standing in an empty field in Middle of Nowhere, Montana - no way was he gonna risk this going wrong with other people around - book in one hand, duffle full of supplies in the other. He knows what he has to do, knows what could happen to him if he screws it up.  
  
He doesn’t have a choice.  
  
He has to get Dean back.  
  
He pulls the climbing rope and metal stake out first; ties the rope three times around his waist, secures it to the stake and drives it deep as he can into the ground; gives a few hard _tugs_ to make sure it holds.  
  
He doesn’t want to think about it coming loose while he’s in there.  
  
The Obeah woman who’d given him the spell had warned him over and over, in her heavily-accented English _“What’ya get back, may not be what’ya lost. Might be a kindness t’just let ‘im go.”_ She’d looked at him; big brown eyes so dark and deep, set into wrinkled ebony skin like gnarled wood, almost with pity; and something deeper that he swears he could _feel_ right down to the tattered rags of his soul.  
  
Trouble is, he’s never known how to do that. Isn’t sure he wants to.  
  
She’d given him the book; ancient-looking leather and pages made of something that isn’t paper that he probably doesn’t wanna know about. Told him what he’d need to do to _“crack tha shell, but only for a little time, y’understand?”_ , mentioning something vague and warning-like about needing a soul that’d passed through the veil and crossed the lines of worlds.  
  
He’d almost smiled at that.  
  
Sam ran out of lines to cross a long time ago.  
  
He pulls the talisman from the bag last, turns the big brass circle in his hands, runs his fingers over the raised symbols he doesn’t recognise and barely comprehends. He takes the knife from his ankle, slides the blade over his palm; familiar pain and line of crimson welling up. Holding the talisman in one hand, he squeezes his grip tight, ‘till the blood runs and drips onto the metal, symbols glowing faintly red-white, the whole thing heating in his palm.  
  
Only one chance, he knows.  
  
He throws the sacred object like a frisbee; watches it land soft in the grass a few feet away; tries not to think of metal rings on the ground of a cemetery. He reads from the book, careful not to get blood on the pages - probably wouldn’t be the first time - words fumbling and language unfamiliar. Seems to work though, from the way the hairs on his arms stand up, the feeling of impending lightening all around.  
  
The air ripples, small wash of too-warm wind ruffling his hair, scent of something dark and old and full of death.  
  
The portal forms like a dent in empty space; sitting in midair above the now-glowing talisman. Like a mirage but not; sucking in the light around it, feeling of vertigo as he watches it stretch in on itself, like a tunnel but completely flat. The other side is hazy, indistinct; all blacks and greys and soft light. The smell of blood and fear hits him, sounds of rushing wind and breaking bones carrying in the air.  
  
In a wide circle beneath it, the grass is dying; turning brown and wilting, then going grey and crumbling into dust, like video on fast forward.  
  
He tries not to think of how long Dean might’ve been in there, from his point of view.  
  
The portal widens into a rough archway, ground shifting and caving beneath it, like the Earth itself doesn’t want to touch it.  
  
Sam knows how it feels.  
  
He steps forward, dropping everything but the knife to the ground, long line of rope slowly uncoiling as he moves, and stops at the threshold.

  
He spreads his hand flat and parallel with the plane of the door he’s made, feels it warm and cold at the same time; skin tingling with static. He pictures Dean’s face, his eyes, his hands, his voice, the way he smirks.  
  
He steps forward, and reality rends and twists in an eternity that takes less than a single step.  
  
Then he’s through.  
  
He isn’t sure what he expected Purgatory to look like, but he doubts he could’ve come up with _this_.  
  
It’s dark; so dark he shouldn’t be able to see at all, and yet there’s a faint tint of grey and red over everything, like twilight stained in blood. The ground is soft like earth, but feels _deeper_ , somehow, sensation one of standing on a mountaintop. Everywhere there are trees that aren’t really trees; warping and groaning and made of shadows and sighs. There’s a broken line of horizon shining from between them, but it’s much too _close_ and isn’t illuminating anything. The air is warm and still, utter absence of wind or breeze or any movement at all.   
  
It smells like rot, and fear, and the breath of monsters.  
  
He wants to call for Dean, knows he can’t wander forever with his lifeline trailing through a hole in the world behind him, but the stillness around him is so _heavy_ that he can’t bring himself to break it.  
  
He takes a step forward, feet making a sound like echoes in a corridor.  
  
He walks as far as he can, before the long line of rope gets almost taught. He moves in a wide arch, sweeping in and back toward the portal.  
  
From the darkness, there are dozens of red eyes, watching him.  
  
Every hair on the back of his neck is standing up, his heart is thudding and his breath is coming fast; every sense telling him that he’s being stalked by predators.  
  
He’s thinking of just cutting the rope, and risking getting lost in this Dali-esque nightmare of a place, when his eyes catch on something paler than the murky blackness around him. He treads over, light as he can, comes to a mound of something cold and rough that looks like rock - if rock could expand and contract like the slow heaving of a giant’s chest.   
  
He crouches, extends a hand, and nearly sobs when he feels leather and warm fabric beneath his fingers.  
  
“Dean?” Soft and tentative, first time he’s spoken since he got here - could be minutes, feels like weeks - words sounding heavy and slightly muffled in the air.  
  
No response.  
  
Hands running up the sleeve of the jacket, he reaches skin - warm, _stillalivestillalive_ \- and feels the pulse fluttering quickly beneath the skin of his brother’s neck.  
  
“ _Dean_. C’mon, Dean, wake up.” Desperation in the words, shakes him enough that his head lolls to one side. His face is pale, even in what little light there is to see by. He looks slightly gaunt; cheekbones too pronounced, eyes a little sunken above lashes like ash smudged on his almost-white skin.  
  
He isn’t waking up.  
  
There’s a sound nearby; like bone grinding on bone, snuffling like moist breath.  
  
They can’t stay here.  
  
Sam does the only thing he can; gets his arms under Dean’s knees and along the breadth of his shoulders, braces himself and _heaves_ them up, ‘till he’s standing and his arms are burning and Dean _isn’t waking up._  
  
He turns and follows the line of rope back to the now-shimmering portal; weak light emanating from it like television in a darkened room. It looks more translucent now, and he knows he’s stayed too long, it’s gonna collapse.  
  
With his brother in his arms, he moves faster than a walk but slower than a run, and so, _so_ careful not to slip or drop Dean as he does.  
  
The eyes are getting closer.  
  
He stops at the edge of the portal; shoulders aching with the strain, breath too-loud in the otherwise eerie quiet. The edges of the doorway are fading in toward the centre, and he has to duck his head to fit, turning sideways so Dean’s body - _notabodystillalive_ \- doesn’t touch the now-ragged boundary. He takes a slow breath and lets it out as he steps forward.  
  
It _hurts_.  
  
The passage back through is like being twisted inside-out and upside-down from the inside; cold and searing hot and _awful_. He doesn’t react, can’t let himself; cargo in his arms too precious.

  
He stumbles as he’s _shoved_ through to the other side, invisible hand on his back. The sudden burst of daylight as his vision clears stings his eyes and stabs at his temples. He doesn’t move his arms or shoulders, sheer force of will and thoughts of Dean thudding to the ground.  
  
Then he notices the layer of disgusting _something_ coating him; his clothes; _Dean_.  
  
It _stinks_ ; like sulphur but worse, faint metal tang and scent of spirit ectoplasm.  
  
He lowers Dean - carefully, so carefully - to the ground, wipes it from around his still-closed eyes and nostrils and the faded pink of his lips. He turns as a rushing _sizzle_ fills the air, sees the portal suddenly contort and contract to a pinpoint of intense white-blue light, before it blinks out with a _push_ of air; door between realities slamming shut. The talisman lies below it; cracked in two and almost-liquid where the metal had heated, glowing red and smoking in the now-grey soil.  
  
He did it.  
  
The sense of triumph lasts about a second, before he turns back and takes in Dean lying on the grass; chest rising and falling, slow and even; pale skin not hidden by the sheen of whatever Purgatory-slime is covering them both. He kneels next to his brother, runs his fingers over his forehead, drawing lines in the goo.  
  
Pure stubborn determination has him lifting Dean again and heading for the Impala at the edge of the field. Laying Dean down in the back is oddly comforting; sight of _home_ sheltering his family with metal and glass and leather seats.  
  
Trying to smile as he thinks of the lecture Dean’ll no-doubt give him for the slime in his Baby when he wakes up - _he‘sgonnawakeuphe‘sgottawakeup_ \- he lets the engine roar to life and heads for the house he’s been squatting in on the edge of town.  
  
He doesn’t register the drive at all, repeated glances at Dean _he‘srealhe‘salive_ in the rearview mirror and the itchy feel of the _stuff_ drying and tightening on his skin. Arriving at the house, he hauls Dean into his arms for the third time, swift kick to the unlocked door, bizarre reality of carrying his _brotherlovereverything_ over the threshold; into a house that isn’t even theirs.  
  
Whatever is covering his skin is starting to burn a little, and he’s gotta get it off of Dean before it does something like eat through their skin or set them on fire; Winchester luck being what it is.  
  
Carrying Dean up the winding wooden staircase to the - surprisingly spacious - bathroom has his arms trembling from exertion by the time he sets him gently down the on the tile floor, reaches over to turn the shower on hot as it’ll go without being painful. Steam rising where he hasn’t pulled the curtain, mirror fogging and condensation beading up, he cuts Dean’s slimy, torn and frayed clothes off with his knife, tugs and pulls and tears at his own ‘till they unstick and fall to the floor with a slick-sounding _flop_.  
  
He just manages to get Dean into the tub, props him against the wall and holds him up while he moves the showerhead toward him. The goo comes off easily enough under the spray, and Dean actually makes a soft _noise_ when the water hits him; Sam’s heart jumping so hard he’s surprised it isn’t halfway across the room.  
  
Worst of the stuff washed off, he plugs the tub and turns the taps on, keeping Dean balanced one-handed as he gets the cold going to keep the water bearable, if still hotter than he’d like under different circumstances.  
  
It’s a big tub; one of those old fashioned claw-footed ones, but getting two guys over six-foot laying down is still a masochistic exercise in elbows and shins and kneecaps; especially when one of them isn’t actually _conscious_.  
  
They finally end up with Dean propped in front of Sam; back to front; hands running down his arms and over his chest; pushing the slime off his skin and watching as it breaks up in the hot water. Dean makes another noise when Sam’s hands go into his hair, trying to wash it without having to dunk him; lines of pale skin appearing from under bluish-white goo as it peels away with the streams running from his hair.

  
“Shh, s’okay Dean. S’just me.” Words said so softly they’re barely audible even to him, breathed against the back of Deans ear where they’re pressed together, like sharing baths is something they do all the time.  
  
He’s got most of the nasty stuff off of Dean now; small patches left slick-shining under the bare lightbulb hanging from the centre of the room. Sam’s gone from purposeful washing to just reassuring touches as he feels the bones that jut too-far out in Dean’s ribcage and hips, the way his skin is so pale he can nearly see the veins underneath, freckles standing out everywhere like constellations on an inverted sky.   
  
It makes his brother look _fragile_ in a way that Dean just _isn‘t_ , far as Sam’s concerned, sets his world-view at an odd angle.  
  
Soft groan and twitch of muscle in Dean’s legs, and Sam tightens his grip so he doesn’t thrash and bang himself up against the walls of the tub.  
  
“I’m here, Dean. You’re alright. You’re safe. I got you, I got you.” Every bit of comforting nonsense he can think of spilling from his lips against his brother’s skin, voice a little hoarse and wet, and Dean seems to relax even as he slowly comes to; lines of tension in his forehead fading a little, muscles of his back loosening.  
  
“S’right. You’re okay, you’re okay. It’s Sam, s’just Sammy.” Hands stroking over Dean’s belly in slow circles, soft twitch of muscle and smooth skin in response.  
  
“S’mmy?” Word like a grunt made of broken glass, throat clicking and dry as he swallows.  
  
“Shh, don’t try and talk, okay? I got you. You’re okay.” Kiss pressed to the hollow behind his ear, watching Dean’s profile as his lashes flicker up a little, monumental effort like his lids are weighted. Takes him nearly five minutes to open them all the way, pools of green seeming bigger and _so_ bright next to pale skin and the grey-white of the bathroom tiles.  
  
“Wh’re?” Like a cough, and it takes Sam a second to figure out what he means.  
  
“Old house in Montana. Owner’s are either on vacation or they split when demons and Leviathans started duking it out all over the place.” Hands gripping Dean’s forearms as he babbles, fingers brushing back and forth.  
  
“H’long was I…?” Question broken off in another cough, and Sam presses a kiss to the side of his neck, soft and girly as all-hell, but Dean’s in no place to tease him about it right now.  
  
“I. I dunno, Dean. Over a month here, but in there…” He trails off; doesn’t know, doesn’t _want_ to know. Two-hundred and twenty years or more of Hell between them is enough, without adding Purgatory-time to that.  
  
“Felt.” Wet clearing of his throat, chest shuddering on Sam’s. “Felt like one long day. One day that lasted years.” Something vital in Sam clenches at the lost-little-boy tone in his voice.  
  
“It’s over now, okay? You’re out, we’re okay.” Grips Dean tighter like he has to make sure.  
  
“Cas?” Brain stalling for a second, and _fuck_ he’d been so tightly-focused he hadn’t even _looked_.  
  
“I don’t know.” He says instead. “You weren’t with him when I.” Voice giving out, lungs deflating helplessly.  
  
“Popped out on me; second we got there, almost.” Voice too tired for any real anger or malice, but Sam has fucking _had it_ with angels screwing them over. Not for the first time, he admits.  
  
“I’m sure he’s okay. Prob’ly lots’a bugs in Purgatory for him to talk to.” Gets him a weak, pathetic excuse for a snort, but he’ll take it.  
  
“What now?” Asked even as his eyelids are drooping closed again; moss-green covered up by china-white.  
  
“Just rest, okay? We can. We’ll figure it out.” Said into Dean’s hair, feel of water running down one cheek that’s just bathwater, he’s sure.  
  
“We’ll figure it out.”


End file.
